South Side Artists and Criminals
by Seazu
Summary: Mickey finds a love of art through tattooing himself. It develops when he starts tattooing other people. It's nice to have something you're actually good at, it's nice to feel some value and self worth. Mandy enlists the only other artist she knows to help her finish an application to get Mickey into Art school - Ian Gallagher. The place must have a soft spot for ghetto trash thou
1. Chapter 1

Ian wasn't the only guy from the South Side in the class. He knew about Mickey long before he started, he went to school with his little sister Mandy; hell, he was even part of the reason why Mickey had even come to study Art here in the first place. Not that he could tell him that.

When Mandy first asked him to help with the application, he thought it was probably just because she didn't know anyone else who was interested in art (based on the fact that he was always doodling on his notebooks in class, by the way). For some reason, she thought that would basically make him the best candidate to help with the essay.

It took him a while to realise why Mandy was doing this for her asshole brother at all. It wasn't really helped by the fact that any time he asked she just gave him another bullshit reason:

He smells awful, or,

He's so fucking annoying I just want him gone, or

His room is bigger than mine, or

There are too many fucking guys in our house.

Really though, once he got to know Mandy, saw the softness she hid below the edgy exterior, it was clear. She loves him, same as Ian does all of his siblings. She saw he had a talent and she wanted him to fucking do something with it. And since all guys are dumb assholes, she was the one who had to take action.

Realistically all that they had were a bunch of his drawings, half of them crumpled from being tossed into the trash, and an essay Ian and her had poured over. It wasn't much and the application for the scholarship was taxing as fuck. Mickey didn't have the grades, heck he'd dropped out of school (or been kicked out? Ian was never sure what was rumour and what was truth), hadn't done shit really. No legal work experience. No evidence he did anything at all. So, neither of them really expected the acceptance letter, but apparently the SAIC admissions office ate up that tortured artist ghetto kid bullshit. Or maybe they had a quota of charity cases to fill, either way - Mickey was in. Who would be stupid enough to turn down a free ride out of South Side anyway? Not even Mickey could pass it up, much as he protested it at first - sort of to Mandy's delight. Anything to wind up her pissy big brother.

( The fuck did you apply for fucking college for me? Wait. What do you mean they said yes ? )

Ian was under no illusions that the same trick would work twice, so instead he worked twice as hard to build a good portfolio and write a decent essay and get the grades he needed. He knew it was still a long shot, because he obviously couldn't afford tuition no matter how much money he saved, but he applied to every school he could anyway, just on the off-shot that someone was dumb enough to think he was a decent candidate. Honestly, the only explanation he can come up with is that SAIC has a soft spot for the troubled youth of South Side, why else would they keep taking in their strays? Not that he was complaining. Obviously. The opposite really, because he pretty much couldn't wipe the grin off of his face for about two weeks after he got his letter, which is saying something when you have to deal with people like Frank Gallagher on a fairly regular basis.

* * *

He didn't expect Mickey to remember him when he started, didn't even know how much he'd see him around when he was in the year above. He thought their schedules would be too different to catch more than a few glances of each other, but as it turned out the studio space was shared between every year-group. The room was lined with rows of tables divided up by boards, decorated by whichever student had claimed them first. A huge room off the back was dedicated to screen-printing and presses; a fancy as fuck Mac lab and still space left over for people working on bigger paintings or sculptures.

It was overwhelming when they were first brought in. The studio was buzzing with conversation, and a mixture of paint smells and things he couldn't even place yet - nothing unpleasant, though. Nothing like the places he walked into back home, the stagnant smell of sweat and hormones at his high school, or the shame and alcohol in the bars, or the old food smell of the Kash and Grab. This was fresh and new and exciting. He couldn't help but glance around to catch sight of that familiar black scruff though, if only because he already felt immensely out of place and just wanted something to ground him, and show him that they could thrive here among the snobby and the pretentious. Well, what he expected to be snobby and pretentious. He was more surprised to find a lot of the people in his class dressed like Dr Seuss had vomited on them, with a myriad of hair colours and pretty tattoos and piercings, a lot of chinos on the guys and hair strategically styled to look unstyled, round glasses and stubble. Though there were just as many people who looked surprisingly plain too, long brown hair and forgettable outfits and generic names. He decided there and then, there were people who lived their art and people who let the art speak for them.

He was caught in this thought while they were being given a tour of the studio, and his eyes latched onto a familiar form. Back turned, but he'd seen enough of him while he was lifting in Kash's shop to recognise it. Smoke rising from his lips, hair no longer a spiky mess but now slicked back with an undercut. Music thrummed around him as he hunched over his desk, drawing intensely. It was only after he walked farther on with the group he was able to see the stubble and the… vape ? Seriously? Shit. What's the world come to when even Mickey Milkovich is a fucking hipster vape bitch?

He still grinned to himself though, and kept walking, trying to take everything in.

"Okay, who's next?"

They sat on every available table and chair around the professors, and still a bunch had to stand. Apparently they were one of the biggest year-groups that'd come through the college, 38 in total - but they'd been warned that it was likely at least a quarter of them would drop out in the next two years at least. He was dedicated enough already that he knew he wouldn't be one of them. Thought the threat of being some useless drunken criminal like his father was enough to keep him here, supposed Mickey probably felt the same way. He absently turned his head to get a look at him as he considered that.

He slid through the crowd of his peers to come up to the front, hated the introduction thing, but he'll deal with it. He couldn't help the army stance he fell into, arms crossed behind his back, feet shoulder-width apart, chin level as he looked at the sea of expectant eyes, including some of the older students gathered to see the new fish.

"Hey, I'm Ian, I'm from here in Chicago," he paused briefly wondering whether to specify before he thinks fuck it , just as likely he could be from Beverly as Back of the Yards, so he adds, "South Side." He saw Mickey's head tilt up from where he was sitting as he said that, didn't think his voice would carry over that buzz of metal music but apparently so. He tried to press his lips together to hide the smile as he looked down briefly, "I ah, I'm in the ROTC, wanted to go to Westpoint, but you know, Camo wasn't really my colour, so I came here instead." He shrugged off the awkward joke when it didn't get a great reception and glanced at his professor to see if he could sit down yet.

"Great to have you, Ian, go ahead." He stretched a smile into place before he headed back. That experience did literally nothing to alleviate the sense that he didn't belong here. Thanks for that.

He glanced over towards Mickey's desk again on his way to his seat, but he was back to drawing. Really hoped he didn't hear that shitty joke, now.


	2. Chapter 2

Mickey considered himself a criminal, first and foremost. He considered himself a premium grade asshole. He briefly considered himself a bit of an entrepreneur. What Mickey never considered himself to be, was an Artist. He never thought that doodling cocks on his textbooks and carving initials into desks would qualify him at least. Alright, fuck, fine, so he knew it didn't. He even knew pretty much giving himself ink poisoning by making up patterns and bone structures to biro onto his hands and arms didn't count. Whatever. So he guessed it probably started around the time he did some deals with a guy from a local tattoo shop who traded him an old machine and some needles and ink, to knock a few bucks off his bill. Not that he knew what the fuck to do with it at first; but hey that's what the fucking internet is for, right?

He started on himself, because no matter how tough you act, you can't just fucking pin someone down and force them to be your pig skin. Also, let me just fuckin tell you how hard it is to write upside down with your wrong hand, okay? It's fuckin hard. He did easier stuff after that, on his legs mostly, just to get the hang of the lines and pressure. He didn't expect to get into it, that's for sure. Started doing a few for friends and shit… and a few infections later he learned about hygiene and proper practice. When people asked for more complex shit, he started charging them, and when they complained he started to learn more about drawing.

Shit, honestly, he never really dedicated himself to something more than he did that. Figured at least one person saw that, and they got him into art college, so for the first time in his life he doesn't feel good for nothing. Course it didn't really last long, still felt isolated when he got there, even though he ain't really that far from home. He kept to himself, but that only really split the opinion further, people couldn't decide if they hated him (because he stank of booze and cigarettes, and he was always late, and he blasted his music and didn't give a fuck about other people's property rights), or if they loved the mystery (because he barely spoke and when he did it was some sharp as shit insult or comeback, or because he was the exact type of bad boy their father would hate, or because he did cheap tatts on the downlow, or because he had the best weed in the Loop) but generally he finds most people won't approach him for small talk, only if they wanted something. Which suited him just fuckin fine.

He spent an entire year falling down the social ladder within his class, when people realised how much of a prick he really was, and that those negatives heavily outweighed his benefits as a friend. Whatever. He kept his head down, got work done, got some tattoos done on the side for extra money and experience. It's all good. Couple more years and he'd be qualified to tattoo for real, maybe start an apprenticeship nearby if he got the chance.

He fully expected to keep being the isolated ghetto trash here until he heard those two words uttered from the back of the studio: South Side. It made him look up, and see someone familiar. It definitely took him a while to process who it was. But fuck, another kid from his hometown; the fuck are the chances of that? Just hoped he ain't harbouring a grudge.

* * *

A week passed and Ian didn't manage to make contact with Mickey properly. Every time he saw him at his desk he chickened out. What the fuck is he supposed to say anyway - hey, I'm also from South Side, remember me? Mandy's friend? You robbed my store on multiple occasions? Haha yeah, how you been, man? Some days he wasn't even sure why he wanted to talk to him. He just seemed like a grumpy asshole, glaring at anyone who got too close, turning his music up any time people talked near him, hogging the kettle and making a mess of the kitchen every time he made coffee. And apparently just stealing whatever coffee was there, too, and whoever's mug was around.

The last bit in particular didn't really surprise him. Once a thug, always a thug, right? There's a word for that, he's pretty sure. Necroph- no, narcol- not that either. K? Is it a k word? Klepto. That's the one. Kleptomaniac. Mickey probably couldn't help himself, maybe since he had to be so straight-laced, it was the only rush he could get.

Regardless, it's exactly why he hated himself for being stupid enough to leave his mug unattended. He knew Mickey took them, and still he let it happen. He rolled his eyes aggressively when he checked the shelves for it again, just in case. Then he floated back to his desk (or rather, stomped) and looked up the neatly organised row of paints and his roll of brushes and jars with pencils and pens, even his erasers and sharpener were in a neat little row parallel to his sketchbook. The pictures for reference and inspiration up his wall were lined up almost to the millimetre. No mug.

He wouldn't give a shit except it's one of his only personal possessions, something he brought from home he actually gave a shit about. He huffed air out aggressively as he made his way to Mickey's space, back hunched as usual over his work, earphones shoved in for once and head bobbing as he drew. Ian didn't take the time to peek over his shoulder at what it was, didn't care right then. Just prodded at his back and waited for a response.

"What the fu-" is as far as he got, while he turned his head and pulled an earphone out, squinting like he'd been on some massive bender as he looked up at Ian.

"I want the mug back, Mickey."

"Gallagher?" he said, as he regarded him, turning properly.

Ian just didn't have the time for it, didn't have time to think about how he imagined this interaction would go, because he was pissed off someone would take something from him. Hated having things taken away. Hated that Mickey hadn't changed, and it was just like the Kash and Grab all over again. "My Mug," he reminded him firmly, with a no-bullshit expression.

Mickey just shrugged rubbing his eye with the base of his hand and turning back to his drawing again, "I don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about, man, but can you do it quieter and farther away."

"My fucking mug, I left it in the kitchen. You apparently still just take whatever-the-hell you want, but I want it back. Now. "

Mickey rolled his eyes and turned back to stare at him again, letting silence hang between them, maybe just to make Ian feel the weight of his anger, or to see if it'd fizzle out given enough dead air. But then he tilted his head and quirked an eyebrow, "look, man, unless you're the world's greatest mom," he said, deadpan as he pushed forward the mug he was drinking from, adorning just that message, "I don't think I've got your fuckin' mug."

"I- oh." He deflated on the spot, and Mickey seemed to enjoy that, his eyes moved quickly over his form before he took a drink and went back to his drawing.

"Welcome to SAIC by the way," he said, flipping him off without turning again.

Ian stood there for another moment or two, feeling a mixture of embarrassed and guilty. Sure Mickey… stole that mug, but he didn't steal the one Ian accused him of. And he wasted his first interaction on a pointless argument. Perfect.

He stepped away and headed back to his desk, a light heat in his cheeks, too much to even allow him to continue the mug hunt. Shit.

* * *

There was a sudden thud in front of him, and seconds after a heavy clamp on his shoulder which made his pencil shoot across the page with surprise. He turned suddenly to see Mickey's smug face, and then the watched words, "you owe me a drink, Gallagher," slip from his lips.

He blinked with utter miscomprehension and followed Mickey's nod back to his desk, where his mug was now perched. He found it. Then he frowned at his ruined drawing with the heavy line through it and up to Mickey again. "What?"

Mickey's grin just widened and his vice-like grip tightened on Ian's shoulder and dragged him off, almost taking the wheelie chair with him. "Bring your purse, bitch." He barely had time to tug his coat off the back of his chair before he was dragged out of the studio and down to the student union where Mickey ordered himself a drink and flashed that smile again at Ian, which basically meant: he's paying.

Ian face crumpled into something bitchy, but he pays anyway, after ordering a beer for himself, too. No idea what this asshole's game was but… he did still feel a little bad about earlier and he'd really rather not be on a Milkovich's bad side.

Mickey took his glass and swaggered off into the bar, and after glancing between him and his own glass, Ian figured he was supposed to follow, tottering out to the balcony with him, where Mickey had pulled up a seat and already gotten his smokes and a lighter out. After a moment or two of hesitation, Ian sat with him and watched him with curiosity before taking a drink. "I thought you were vaping."

"Fuck no, man, they just won't let me fuckin' smoke in the studio-"

"Shit, what monsters they are."

"Fuck you," he says, flipping him off and lighting up. "Got tired of climbing three fucking flights of stairs every time I wanted a smoke."

"Could always quit."

"Yeah, like I never thought of that," he snapped, inhaling like it was the most satisfying thing ever, breathing smoke out his nose. Ian watched the tilt of his head and the way it exposed his throat, brain providing him with images of him sucking on the skin there, wondering if he'd make a similar expression. He catches himself and reminded himself that he was staring at Mickey Motherfucking Milkovich and if he ever even suspected what was going on in Ian's head right then, he may as well have a deathwish.

Silence fell between them again and Ian just drank his beer, but still watched Mickey out of the corner of his eye. Watched him blow smoke off the edge of the balcony like some trashy French film. It was fucking hot. It was pretty fucked to think that he could find South Side's most renowned piece of shit thug hot. But it only really made him grin, because it was just so ridiculous and oddly thrilling to think something that could be deadly if said aloud.

"The fuck you got to grin about?"

Completely ignoring the question, Ian toned down the grin and said, "how do you like it here?"

Mickey looked vaguely off-put by the unrelated response but eventually shrugged, taking a drink, "it's fine, man. It's not South Side."

"Yeah, it definitely isn't." He paused for a while to consider that. It wasn't like they were all that far away from home, but it still felt immensely different, the people and the buildings and the general attitude people had. Enough to make him feel alienated most of the time, though he was finding he enjoyed the company of some of the others in his class, once he let them in and got the chance to know them better. It wasn't that he couldn't be social, he was actually pretty good, it was just letting his guard down enough, not constantly expecting some kind of attack. "You still doing tattoos?"

"What, you ain't seen the posters?"

"There's posters?"

He rolled his eyes, but with a twinge more amusement than frustration. "Just keep an eye out."

"Thought they weren't even legal."

"Keep an eye out."

"Sure, man." His face screwed up briefly. 'Man'. Is that a Mickeyism? Is he just repeating him now?

Mickey didn't seem to notice either way, just slammed back the last of his beer and stubbed his cigarette out after a final drag, and stood, chair screeching against the cement. He burped loudly, and nodded at Ian on his way past. "Catch you later, Gallagher." And with that, he was gone.

It was such a peculiar interaction that Ian had to remind himself it was real at least twice after Mickey left.

* * *

"Did I see you hanging out with that Milkovich kid at the SU?"

"Uh… yeah?"

"Why? He's so gross. I saw him drink old brush water once and he didn't even spit it out."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! And he never turns his music down, even when the professors are talking, they all hate him. Wouldn't be half as bad if he played decent music at least."

"Seems okay to me."

"Milkovich or the music?"


	3. Chapter 3

He'd walked past the posters so many times they'd become wallpaper to him, but after Mickey had mentioned them, he was now actively searching for one. How do you secretly advertise illegal practice? The front of the studio was a mess of posters for illustration competitions and events and postcards and promo materials, but there were more recent ones up too. The one that caught his eye was a riso print, just black, white and red - something distinctly Mickey about that. Two middle fingers with 'CALL MICK' tattooed across the knuckles. Presumably his number below it and then the words: 'less SAILOR JERRY, more WALMART MICKY - cheap but reliable'

He can't help but snort, and knew exactly why he'd never get into advertising. Ian took a photo of the poster on his phone, though he really just wanted to tear it down and keep it in his room, he knows how damn expensive they are to print, and Mickey would definitely notice one missing from such an obvious place. Swore he'd keep one if he found it elsewhere though.

It wasn't like he was planning on getting a tattoo. He didn't have anything against them really, but for now it mostly just seemed like a waste of money. Even if the idea of Mickey so close, breathing against his skin, stroking him, having to spend time with him - in any position he decided he needed an overly time-consuming piece done - sounded pretty great. But now he had Mickey's number. Just sitting on his phone. He could text him. Mickey wouldn't even know who it was. He could talk to him without fear of being mocked or making an ass of himself. He had that option.

* * *

Mickey left his phone in his dorm all day while he was at College. He'd wasted the battery the night before listening to music while he jerked off to whatever porn would open on that piece of shit samsung ( what do you mean Flash won't run? ). Decided he might as well just leave it here since he never even used it during the day, didn't respond to messages until the evening, never looked away from whatever he was drawing, only really checked it when he broke for a smoke or a quick drink at the SU. So it was unsurprising when he returned with a list of emails and facebook notifications and texts and calls and random apps reminding him to check in and all of the usual bullshit that accumulates.

He ignored most of it as he kicked his feet up on his bed and lit up, replying to messages, mostly about either weed or tattoos, all he was good for. Ignored the chick in his project group just because he knew how tightly wound she was and how much it would screw with her. At the end of the list was a new number with the message:

 _Is this Mickey?_

 _Yh_

 _I got your number from the poster_

 _u wnt a tatt?_

 _oh, no. Well maybe. But I mostly just wanted to tell you I think you're cute_

 _Cute?_

 _Yeah_

 _o...k…?_

It has been a while since someone has sent him a text like that. Thought the novelty of his bad boy attitude had worn off so much it was just grating on people now. Though he guessed maybe it was the new kids, they didn't know any better, right? Wouldn't be long until that faded too, then. That or someone in his class was punking him. He pursed his lips as he stared at the messages… not like he had anything better to do, so he replied again.

 _Do I nou?_

 _Maybe ;)_

 _Nt guna tel me?_

 _That would spoil the fun_

 _Mak it hrder 2 fuk u…_

 _True! I'll give you a clue then: I'm on your course_

 _Yh dat narrows it dwn 2 100…_

 _Fewer options than before I told you, at least! ;)_

 _Narrow it dwn agane then_

 _Ah ah! Maybe later. Can't make it too easy!_

Mickey rolls his eyes and set his phone aside, bored of the enigma shit. Who has time to play 'Guess Who' anyway? He was just hoping for a bit of sexting or something to pass the time instead of making his head hurt. He was pretty much convinced then and there that it was just someone trying to mock him anyway.

Ian pulled a face. He was sitting at his desk in his dorm room, staring his phone down like if he looked at it with enough concentration he could force mickey to reply, or at least make it explode. But a reply didn't come. Shit. He was too weird. And now he could never give Mick his actual number because he would know it was him texting. Great. Perfect. Cute. He called him cute. Is cute really the word to be applied to Mickey Milkovich? Asshole - yes, pig - yes, hot - sometimes. Ian sighed until he ran out of air to dispel and set his phone down, too, before he just gave up and went for a shower.

* * *

"You're going to die alone."

"Jesus," Mickey hissed, looking up the smooth plains of her body. Her features were soft, and somehow even from the unflattering angle he had from between her thighs, her expression was bright. Like she'd just told him she'd started reading a new book, not waved her hand over an imaginary crystal ball and predicted he'd be eaten by his twenty cats.

"I'm just saying, Mick, you never go out anymore, it's so sad, you just stay at home and get high and jerk off, what kind of life is that?"

Mickey rolled his eyes and looked back down at her stomach, needle buzzing in his hand, hovering over where he'd been shading. "Can we fuckin' talk about something less depressing, Mystic Meg."

"It wouldn't be depressing, or even true if you just came out with us some timeee," she sang, looking oddly unaffected by the pain. But that could have something to do with the joint lounging between her slender fingers.

Victoria was sprawled across his bed, where he always worked. Propped up like a pillow princess, dark curls framing her face. Mickey had never met someone who dressed quite like her, always some mess of hippie and what he guessed was Native American. Something she claimed was perfectly fine because she was half Cherokee, so it ain't cultural appropriation or some shit. He just knew she delighted in calling people out on it and watching them squirm. As it was, she had her floaty treehugger shirt hitched up so he could add to a piece he'd been doing for her for a while now, across her abdomen. She was one of the few people who came back to him on a fairly regular basis. According to Victoria, that made them friends; according to Mickey she just had more money to burn than sense.

"I go out plenty, Vic, just not with you."

"So fucking rude," she teased, eyes tracing over his face while he was focused on her, she brought the joint to her lips and inhaled deeply as she let her mind wander. Thinking what he could get up to while he was down there.

* * *

It didn't take Ian long to find the gay scene here. Not just in the city but among his peers. He swore they just gravitated to each other, between the fag-hags and the queers, they always seemed to end up grouped. He didn't mind much though, loved how easy it was to just be himself and not have to worry about getting his skull made concave. To flirt and have fun and let go. How no one here cared who you fucked; he thought about how cool it would be if everyone was like this, because he was tired of having to come out all the fucking time. Having to utter the words, "I'm gay," over and over for the rest of his life sounded like such a jail sentence. He thought maybe it was twice as hard for Lesbians because they have to say that, and "I'm a Vegetarian" over and over. He honestly didn't know all Lesbians were vegetarians until he started school here, but he was pretty sure after meeting around five of them, that they all must be.

He fucking loved it though, having a friend group. Having people to come over to his dorm and get drunk with and talk shit with and watch films and order food and go out with. This was the life FRIENDS had been preparing him for and he felt like up until now he'd been completely missing out on it because he could only really be himself around his family and until a few months ago when he officially came out to them, he was only about 80% genuine in that.

The gay clubs here were nothing to scream about, and yet Ian was completely entranced the first time he walked in. The thrum of the music which seemed to reprogramme the rhythm of his heartbeat almost instantly, the smell that he knew should be dank and sweaty but was still somehow so sweet, the parading queers who just existed around him. Dancing and making out and drinking and having fun. Shit, if the whole fucking world was as free as he felt there, he was pretty sure stress just wouldn't exist.

It was hard not to fall into the pattern of going out almost every night, getting as drunk as he could afford to and then letting anyone buy him drinks after that, a bit of kissing was a price he was willing to pay for that sugary buzz. The worst price was going to college the next day with a killer hangover that no amount of caffeine seemed able to break.

Sometimes he considered trying the whole 'hair of the dog' thing, it never made much sense to him when even the smell of the alcohol in his deodorant made him want to vomit some days. But as he was passing by Mickey's desk one particularly painful morning it struck him (or rather an idea pulsed in his head and took at least a minute to become clear through the swampy mess of his hangover) that it would be a perfect excuse to ask Mickey down to the bar. Because apparently that's a thing they could do. And he thought he's way more confident ther than he was that first time Mickey almost literally dragged him.

He slapped a hand on his shoulder, making Mickey jump and dig a line across his drawing before he snapped around so fast his earphones fell out themselves, "what the fuck!"

There was nothing quiet about it, and it echoed around the studio so sharply that half the people there turned to look. Ian suddenly felt very visible, and he pulled his hand away to raise them like he was facing a loaded gun. Once people realised it was just ol' Grumpy Milkovich, they mostly got back to what they were doing, but Mickey's nostrils were flaring and that's all Ian could focus on. "Sorry man, owed you one."

"One fuckin' what?"

"You know… you uh, made me do that last time you came up behind me."

Mickey stared at him incredulously before Ian helpfully nodded at his drawing and he turned to look at it. Ruined. Too heavy a line to erase. Fuck. He turned back and stared Ian down again, "the fuck do you want."

"Was just… gonna ask if you wanted to get a drink? Look like you could use one."

"Fuck yourself, Spuds MacKenzie," he said sharply, flipping him off and turning back to his desk, ripping the sheet out of his book and crumpling it to fire it across the studio.

Ian could feel the rage coming off Mickey in waves, he hoped maybe something else had happened to him to get him pissed off before he'd even gotten there, but he was pretty sure he'd done this. Shit. He backed off and just headed out for a smoke - one of the less good habits that had developed since he got here.

* * *

 _Not talking to me?_

 _nthn 2 say_

 _tell me about your day_

 _y t fuk wud i do dat?_

 _so we can get to know eachother?_

 _u gona tel me sht abaut u?_

 _I had a great day, thanks for asking._

 _I ment sumthin abaut hu u r.._

 _Hmm… how about… I'm not in your year._

 _sumthin betr dan dat_

 _Why?_

 _i had a shit day_

 _I have blue eyes_

* * *

Ian carried the weight of his last interaction (in person) with Mickey with him for a few days, too intimidated to approach him again, not sure where they stood after it. Even on the phone he was off, though Ian had long since learned that form of communication would never be a hit for them since his guard seemed somehow even higher behind the baby-talk spelling and grammar. It wasn't until he was liquored up at The Stiff Kitten and had absolutely convinced himself that he had spotted Mickey at the bar, that he even considered talking to him properly again.

He got close enough to be sure it was him, because honestly what the fuck would Mickey Milkovich be doing at a gay club, leaning into some guy at the bar and talking at his ear? Ian eyed him over, the old black boots that betrayed the fact that he was normally flat broke, the curiously well fitted jeans, the plaid shirt that made him look a bit like a dyke paired with the undercut that half the people here seemed to be sporting. He watched him walk away from the bar towards the toilets and watched the guy follow and it clicked - Mickey was a dealer, too. He'd forgotten about that. Duh. Only reason he'd be here, being followed into a bathroom. Probably could make a shittonne a night in a place like this as long as he could suffer the music and clientele.

Ian was on his way to the bar himself to get another drink when it occurred to him that buying from Mickey would be a great excuse to talk to him again, and potentially would land him with a less soul destroying hangover tomorrow if he just got stoned instead of drunk - but then he didn't know what he was selling, what if it was a worse come-down? (Shup up, brain!)

His feet were already taking him to the restroom before he'd decided, and once in he looked around to try and spot them. As the door closed slowly behind him and dulled the pulse of the music, he could hear distinctly un-drug-dealery noises. He jumped at the sound of a hand slamming against the top of the toilet stalls for grip and he slowly and wide-eyed made his way into better view of them, of that hand, and he immediately recognised the 'F U C K' scrawled across the knuckles. That, combined with the wet, slurping noises and occasional low groan froze Ian to the spot (and made him… oddly aroused in a way he wouldn't process until much later).

He couldn't decide if he was dreaming or seeing everything in ULTRA 4K HD all of a sudden as he tried to look anywhere but the stall. Leave, maybe? But his legs wouldn't take him. They were just not listening to him at all, tonight. There was one final exhale that turned into a quiet moan and the stall opened. The guy from the bar walked out first, dragging a thumb from the corner of his mouth to his tongue and walking past Ian, seemingly unaffected by his presence. Then Mickey sauntered out after him, looking satisfied until his eyes focused on Ian and then rounded in a shocked fear he didn't think he'd ever see on Mickey Milkovich, but that transformed as quickly into a hard sort of rage, which he was more accustomed to.

Before he could process what was actually happening, the was a solid bar of Mickey's arm against his throat, shoving him back and pinning him to the wall. All he could think was how dirty the wall was, layers of grime and graffiti. Something most bars had in common. An almost green-glow to the lights. One always broken, one always flickering. A smell far less sweet than the one pumped into the main rooms of the club. Cracked tiles that predated most of the old queens here, and questionable stains everywhere that either couldn't be removed or no one could be bothered to try.

It was easier to think about all of that than his impending death, face a few inches from Mickey's who looked ready for blood. Except for some reason Ian was convinced that Mickey was about to beat him for being at a gay bar. He felt guilty or something. His brow furrowed as he stared at Mickey, searching through the slight cloud of alcohol from the sugary cocktails he'd been downing, trying to figure out how he ended up against the wall.

Mickey was getting his dick sucked.

Mickey was getting his dick sucked.

Mickey was getting his dick sucked, by a dude.

Mickey Milkovich was gay.

"You're gay." The words came out before he even realised. And he immediately regretted it, even the light tone they were presented in, just a statement of fact. It all served to enrage Mickey further, which was impressive given he was already blowing steam.

There was a wet heat and everything went black for a second, and only when things got bright again did Ian realise he was on the floor. He wasn't even sure which part of Mickey connected with him until he looked up and saw a tiny trickle of blood where Mickey had split his brow from slamming it against Ian's head. Then he was being dragged up again by the shirt. Which was funny for a moment because Ian felt like it might just slip off of him, until it caught on his armpits and he had to scramble to get up after it.

"I ain't fuckin' gay," Mickey said, and Ian wondered if he was telling him that, or himself. "You didn't fuckin see nothin, Gallagher. I find out you talked to anyone and I'll rip your jaw off and shove it up your ass, you hear me?" To punctuate his threat, Mickey slammed his fist against Ian's stomach. It should have just made him double over, but his immediate reaction to that pain was instead to throw his own fist at Mickey's face. Some hark back to his play-fights with Lip. If they could be called that.

Mickey stumbled back at the force and looked surprised for a moment. Like no one had ever had the gall to fight back before. And maybe they hadn't. But Ian stood by it. Only slightly bent over, hands now blocking his stomach, when they should have been guarding his face, waiting for Mickey's retaliation punch. Which came shortly after Mickey's surprise faded, because he had to have the last hit if he wanted to be taken seriously.

Ian slid against the questionable wall, to the ground again after it because he suddenly felt sick and didn't trust himself not to fall head first onto the tile floor if he stood any longer. He glanced up and saw Mickey's mouth move, probably reeling off a few more threats, but he only really heard him through a tunnel, and none of it made sense to him, so he just gave him a thumbs up and watched him storm out.

Shit.

Honestly, the worst thing about this was wondering how long he'd have to sit on that gross floor until he could make it outside to call a cab. He found himself empathising with James Franco in 127 hours, wondering if anyone would find him to help him out of there, or would he have to drag his own bloody ass out?

* * *

Mickey couldn't stop pacing. It was a thing he'd seen in films and shit but never really understood it until right then. Well, actually, he was less pacing actually, and more walking aggressively towards his bed to lie down, and then deciding he should go for a walk, no, lie down , go visit Ian, properly fuck him up, make sure he gets the message, no, lie down. Okay no, kill him. That's fine. You can just kill him. No one will ever find out. Lie the fuck down. Can't sleep. Won't sleep. Not ever again. Fuck fuck fuck.

One of the only things that made this shit-hole bearable was that no one knew him. It wasn't like South Side where everyone knew everyone, and their dealers. There was a sense of anonymity. Not like he was going around shouting all of his darkest secrets, but he could at least do what he wanted and not have to fear the wrong person seeing him and it getting back to his family, and you know, Terry, and him ending up dead. But he fucked up, slipped up. Forgot about Ian, forgot that he always had to watch his back, and now… now it was ruined. Over. Fucked.

His phone went off a few times in his pocket but he didn't notice it over his own vibrations. The panic rising in him made him feel sick, ate through the buzz he'd had from the alcohol. He'd never felt as sober as he did then. But he also felt like he was drowning in it. The feelings, the stress, the complete overload, it was consuming him and it manifested in him lashing out and slamming his fist against the wall. The plasterboard caved beneath the weight of it, and he hissed at the pain drawing back and shaking it out, but he could breathe again at least. He continued the stream of consciousness swear-a-thon, but could focus on smaller tasks now, like washing his hand off with a drizzle of vodka from a cheap plastic bottle. Like wrapping it in a sock and grabbing a beer before finally laying down. In opening and drinking that beer between awkwardly rolling a joint (awkward, of course, because his hand felt throbbing and twice the size). In smoking until he felt heavy and like a dead thing and could finally sleep. He couldn't deal with this now, so he decided to just… not.


	4. Chapter 4

Ian was thankful for his friends who came in looking for him and tried to buy him a drink even when he said he was pretty sure he was concussed; and instead bought him a cab home. He was even more thankful for Arley coming with him and helping him up to his dormroom, for Arley staying the night to help patch him up and make sure he was okay. He would be extremely thankful the next morning that Arley didn't let him leave to go find Mickey and talk to him - if he could even remember the night before. But he would have appreciated if he had stopped Ian from texting Mickey any time he got the chance.

 _Are you okay?_

 _You should call me some time_

 _Sure you're okay?_

 _You looked hot tonight_

 _xxx_

Mickey didn't respond, but even the next morning, Ian wasn't surprised. Still, he appreciated the comfort of a warm body pressed against him come dawn. His eyes flickered open slowly and took a while to adjust to the light flooding in where he had neglected to close his curtains last night. A tuft of blue hair poking out from under the covers betrayed Arley's presence before Ian could even remember why he was there. He pulled the duvet down enough to find him breathing softly against his chest and he smiled. But only because for a shocking flicker of a moment he wished it was Mickey. Which was fucking stupid because last night he was shoved against a wall and beaten by the fucking asshole just for even inferring he was gay - after he basically witnessed him getting a hummer for a dude. And Ian knew he wasn't the kind of guy to run after his attacker looking for love, but somehow he sympathised.

Which, again, he knew was stupid and exactly what he used to shout at people on Maury or Jerry Springer for when they repeatedly made poor decisions. But it was Mickey. They were South Side kids. They were from a place where you were constantly fighting to survive and being gay was considered a warrant for your own death. He knew it was probably hard for someone like Mickey who's perceived as a tough guy, with a family like his, to shake the sense that he had to hide everything - but seriously, how much of a dumb-ass was the guy that he couldn't recognise that Ian was also gay. Since he found him in a gay bar, and he hadn't exactly hidden it around College.

He couldn't consider that for too long, as the longer he was awake, the more aware he became that his head was aching, that one of his eyes refused to open fully, and as he tried to sit up, his stomach ached in protest. He groaned and Arley shifted on his chest at the movement, blinking up at him and swallowing to shift his dry throat, glancing up at Ian with doe eyes before he pulled that classic 'eek' face.

"You don't look great."

"Wow, good morning to you, too, man."

"No, I mean, obviously you always look good, but that guy did a number on you."

"You should see him."

"Why, is he handsome?"

Ian smirked and rolled his eyes, "I'm sure he looks worse, I'm basically Mike Tyson, okay?"

"Oh, sure. If he was a scrawny ginger queer kid, okay."

Ian shoved him and Arley just broke into a giggle he was sort of famous for, because it sounded oddly goat-like - but you know, in an endearing way. Unless you really hated the guy, because then it was probably the worst thing in the world.

Arley rolled onto his back and then slipped off the bed, starting to pull on clothes, "what do you want for breakfast?"

"Eugh, I don't even know if I can eat, I feel like actual trash."

"You got painkillers or something?"

Ian wagged an arm limply toward the drawer of his desk and Arley promptly searched it until he found a sheet for Ian to take a few pills from with the water on his nightstand left over from last night.

"I'll see what you have, it's better to eat with those."

"Thanks, Arley."

"No problem, you can buy me a drink next time we're out."

Ian watched him leave the room before he dared pull his phone over to check out the damage of last night's slightly drunk, slightly concussed texting. He cringed at the messages he sent Mickey, he really thought he couldn't have made this any worse but there's always room for embarrassment with Ian Gallagher. He hesitated a few more moments before typing out another message, and sending:

 _How about I tell you one more think about me, will you text back then?_

 _(Also sorry for last night's messages, I was a little drunk)_

He sighed again, as he felt he always did that when he was setting his phone aside after texting Mickey and started to pull himself up to put clothes on, fresh underwear, maybe just some joggers and a hoodie, but had half a leg in before his phone vibrated and he promptly hopped back onto his bed so he could read it, pants around his ankles.

 _mayb_

 _I'm a guy._

When Mickey didn't reply immediately, Ian felt a surge of disappointment, and set his phone aside to finish getting dressed. He curled back up on his bed, and tried his best not to stare at his phone, but as soon as it vibrated he almost sprung on it to check the message. He felt like a teenager all over again, getting stupidly excited over the smallest things. Having a… crush . And then those two words made his stomach flip:

 _pruve it_

He took a moment to breathe before he just whipped his dick out, and then he had to angle it carefully and cover with a grasp of his hand to make sure his pubes weren't in frame: the dead giveaway. But then he changed his mind and stroked himself a little - a risky move when you have a friend over and an unlocked door, really - so he looked a little more impressive . First dick pic to your crush has to look good! Get the good angle and lighting and make sure you frame your little buddy perfectly.

Of course, Arley walked back in in the middle of Ian snapping it, of course he did. Holding two plates of eggs on toast and a smile on his face like he was about to say something hilarious, which was promptly wiped from it when he walked in on… well, that .

"You couldn't wait until I left to update your grindr profile, huh?"

"It's not for Grindr, it's-"

"Whatever man, just put your dick away before your eggs get cold?"

* * *

The physical pain came first, the crippling internal pain a close second. Today was just never going to be a good day for Mickey, after he passed out from some cocktail of beer and weed, which was lucky really. But then he woke up and everything hurt and he just wanted to crawl back under the covers and forget.

Waking up properly was a long process, a struggle, really. It involved at least two cigarettes and surviving last night's now-flat beer to sate his dry mouth. His hand held stiff around the cigarette, struggled to light it, knuckles swollen and tender from colliding with Ian's face and stomach, and - as he then recalled - his wall. Fuck. There goes his deposit. And of course he's just so smart he'd fuck up his dominant hand. Perfect. Can't draw, can't tattoo, can't work. Great. He cursed as he dragged himself out of bed and scavenged the floor for stale pizza or leftover kebab meat or something edible because his empty stomach was doing its best to remind him how long it'd been since he last ate. He feasted on leftovers while hanging off the edge of his bed before he found his phone, buzzing again in his jeans pocket.

A broken clothes-hanger let him drag his pants closer without having to move again to retrieve it. Scrolling through the same old spam of stupid messages his eye caught one from that same unknown number that kept bugging him. Or not one message, but seven. Jesus this chick was clingy. But curiosity got the better of him as he tried to reply. Moving his hand like it was made of wood to tap out the letters even more uncomfortably than usual.

 _mayb_

He wasn't expecting the response. He's had come-ons from girls before, sure, but never guys. Not outside of bars where people were pretty certain why he was there. And even then, he got a few looks. Because apparently despite what he's been told (by Victoria) is pretty obvious queer code in his appearance, he can't drop the South Side tough guy act that people find off-putting. Like he was invading everyone's safe space and the exact type of guy to fag-bash. Which was… not an unfair assumption, given he has done on a few occasions. Anything to fit in, right?

But here was some guy, from his course, who saw him and found him attractive (?) took his number and started flirtexting him. What was that about? But then maybe not. Maybe it was someone trying to trick him, find out if he was a fag. Maybe it was a set up. So he replied with the only thing he could think of:

 _pruve it_

When his phone buzzed a minute later and told him he had a photo waiting, his stomach flipped. Was he finally going to see the guys face? Shit. But when he brought himself to open it, he was faced with a different kind of head. Nothing… bad about that. But, now he just has a dick pic on his phone and he wasn't even sure what he was supposed to do with that. But it's nothing that could be faked, he guessed. Especially when he recognised the freshman dormroom wall in the background.

 _not t hed i was expektin 2 c_

 _I have to keep SOME mysteries alive! ;)_

 _y?_

 _I don't think you like me._

 _with a cock lik dat i cud_

 _ha ha_

 _srsly_

 _what would you do with a cock like mine? ;)_

Mickey paused for a moment before he tried to reply. Was he even up for sexting? He could barely jerk off with this hand. Well, that's what the other hand is for, dumb-ass.

 _u tryin 2 get me 2 sext u?_

 _Is it working?_

 _mayb_

 _I have a friend over, just let me get rid of him and you'll have ALL of my attention._

 _a friend?_

 _Yes? A person you hang out with and/or communicate with socially on a fairly regularly basis._

 _ok leslie nielsen. fuk urself_

He rolled his eyes when the guy didn't reply straight away, thinking he must be googling the name, maybe. But who the fuck doesn't know airplane! anyway? Mickey pulled himself to lie flat on his bed instead and started to flick through other messages, telling himself he wasn't just waiting for a response. Except he couldn't open the chat fast enough when he did eventually reply.

 _Sorry, they're gone now. Where were we?_

 _u wer jus gona tel me wat u wnted 2 do 2 my cock_

 _Mmmm, no, pretty sure you were going to tell ME what you were going to do to MINE._

 _u 1st_

 _Alright, show me what I'm working with, then ;)_

 _no_

 _Awh, why? Do you have a tiny dick?_

 _wow u shud rite a book on sexting_

 _That's not a no ;D_

He hesitated for a few moments before he cursed and stripped below his waist, grabbed his cock to make it bulge a little, give the impression it's more generous than it was (bless his small hands). Taking the picture was a little hard with his swollen hand but he managed after a bit of fiddling to get one which wasn't blurred. And sent it quickly before he could regret it too much, keeping a hand idly on his cock while he waited for a response.

 _Not bad! I like your tatts._

 _u guna cum get 1 sum day?_

 _Some day - would rather just cum right now ;)_

 _ok_

 _Oh so I'll just start off then shall I? I suppose that's fair, you aren't very good at spelling anyway, that might be distracting enough to be off-putting so I'll just focus on getting you off. I suppose if I was there right now, I'd be taking your shirt off too, if you still have it on (you should take it off anyway, so you don't get any cumstains on it), I wanna see all of you anyway, see any shit tattoos you have hidden away where people don't normally get to see. I'd drag my nails down your sides as I made my way down to your dick because that's what I want the most._

 _then wat?_

 _Oh you're such a white boy! Tut tut. Then, I'd lick it a little. Just touches along the shaft. Nose at it, make you squirm because I know how much you want it in my mouth. So I'll lick the tip a few times. Lick all the way from the base to tip, and then I'll take it all in my mouth before you even have the chance to complain again - and I KNOW you're complaining because you always complain. But I'll shut you up because I'm hollowing my cheeks as I suck you off, just the top, but then I'll start going deeper until I can feel you press against the back of my throat, until you're completely hard._

Mickey stroked himself slowly as he read the texts, trying hard to imagine someone doing all of this so he could actually get off to it. He preferred visual aids, but you work with what you got, you know? He wet his lips and let his eyes fall closed for a moment as he waited for another message to come through.

 _I'll keep bobbing my head and use my hand to play with your balls and then pull back a little so I can grip the base of your cock. Jerk you off while my tongue swirls around the tip, licking away any precum spilling out for me. It's all a distraction really, I'll wait for your eyes to be closed so I can jerk you off while I suck on my own finger for long enough to get it wet because once I go back to sucking you off, I'll slip it inside so I can start fingering you. Slow at first, match pace with how I'm blowing you. And then when you loosen up I'll pick up the pace. Find your prostate and abuse it. I'll take you all into my mouth again, if I angle it right I can take you into my throat and hum around you - like a proper hummer - fingering against your prostate until you cum for me. And I'll swallow you all down. I'll take everything you give me._

Mickey was jerking off quite rapidly at that point, his eyes closed again and his phone fell out of his hand once he was close so he could just concentrate on the image and the feeling of the orgasm as it surged through him, his stomach lit up with the fire of it and he gasped a bit at the release when he finally ejaculated. Then he was drifting down from it, all interest in continuing the facade of sexting gone from him as he sat up a bit to look for where his cum landed. And… yeah, of course it was on his fucking shirt.

"Fuck."

 _Mickey?_


	5. Chapter 5

Ian wasn't exactly pleased to be left high and dry by Mickey, who had just promptly stopped replying after he presumably got off. After Ian put so much work into those texts, after he made the effort while Mickey threw him back clipped responses, all he got was… well, nothing. Figures. All he had to work with was a photo of Mickey's dick after that, which was… next to useless when he's more of an ass man, really. But he got the job done at least. Would have been more fun with some participation from Mickey but the idea of the guy getting off to him was second best.

* * *

Ian wasn't exactly sure how to fix any of this. The idea of approaching Mickey in the studio and saying: "Hey, so I'm the person you've been texting, also I'm super into you so it's a good thing you're gay!" somehow didn't seem like like it would go down all that well. He found himself hovering near his desk a few times before he realised how dumb that was and moved on, knowing causing a scene in front of the whole studio was not how to win the trust of a closeted homo.

The poster-wall didn't grab his attention again until Jen asked him if he was going to the Gallery night at the Frog and Fiddle, which made absolutely no sense to him until he found the advert for it to clear things up. He didn't recognise who drew this one, but he figured it was some kind of exhibition the second years were doing in a bar with a rentable space, combining it with a few live bands made up of students and the print technician who he knew was in a sort of experimental techno band. Even if it wasn't for the fact that he was pretty sure Mickey would be displaying something there to put toward a professional credit, it sounded like something he'd want to go to anyway.

* * *

His bruising was going more yellow by the night of the exhibition. He guessed the low lighting would make it almost unnoticeable, which was a good thing since everyone had been looking at him weird and asking a lot of questions about it, which he normally wouldn't mind but he didn't want them to piece it together with Mickey and his war wounds. He went in a group with some of his usual friends to keep him company, and they got themselves drinks before they started wandering the room to look at the art.

There was, as he guessed, low lighting with a red glow, but mounted lamps to illuminate the cheap frames and mounts along the exposed brick walls. It wasn't hard to pick Mickey's out. It was no masterpiece, but it showed off his strong stylised approach and talent for pattern-work.

"Whose is this?"

Jen leaned in and wrinkled her nose as she deciphered the name tag, "eugh, Mickey Milkovich."

A guy standing nearby smirked and interrupted, "you don't like him already?" Ian recognised him as another of the second years.

"No way, he's so loud and disruptive, always stinks of booze and playing loud music - I wouldn't mind so much if it was good."

The guy nodded, "yeah, I was in his group for the symbiotics presentation last year, and he refused to do it unless we dressed as members of KISS - facepaint and all, said he knew a guy who could get us a smoke machine. Was real important for the topic of the presentation. Except he turned up late, and drunk and wasn't dressed up at all, no machine and he delivered his part of the presentation slurred and passed out at the back of the lecture hall afterwards."

"Jesus," someone said, Ian was too caught up in that image, tried to imagine if he had come in costume - Mickey in Gene Simmons face paint. He smirked.

"Who are you talking about, Milkovich?" another of the students from his year, Samuel chipped in. "I lived with him last year, and for one of our first essay submissions he turned up at the professor's office, who wasn't there, minutes before the deadline was up. So he dragged me along to the sculpture studio, stole a hammer and nails and went back, hammered it into her door with a note - it's like everything's some aggressive statement with him, right?"

Ian huffed out a little laugh, feeling like he was meeting Mickey's family and hearing all of the embarrassing childhood stories for the first time. But the feeling wiped away as he glanced across and saw Mickey watching the group spitting tales, within earshot. As soon as he caught Ian he scowled and stomped away back to the bar, and Ian immediately felt remorseful, hoping he didn't seem like he was laughing at Mickey instead of in some kind of puppy-love awe of him.

"I literally saw him walk out of a bar, across the road to the corner shop to get smokes, then come back out, stop in the middle of the road to just vomit for a while, and then walk the rest of the way back to the bar, cars honking around him." The other stories swirled around him as he watched out for Mickey but was beginning to get the impression he had left. "I mean it was St Patrick's day but… wait, is Mickey an Irish name?"

"Is Milkovich?"

Ian felt pretty shitty at the prospect that he had potentially prompted the conversation that had made him feel so unwelcome here he had just run out, but he thought better of it as soon as he spied him in the smoker's area. Of course he hadn't felt bad enough to leave. Mickey was the kind of guy to stick around even longer if he knew it would spite his haters.

Two drinks in, he felt he had the courage to approach him. Sucking in some air before he walked towards him with determination. Mickey caught his eye in the approach and raised a bruised hand to stop him, talking before he even got the chance to start.

"Don't even, Gallagher," he said with a warning tone as he stubbed out his cigarette and started heading back in.

"Just let me explain-"

"I don't wanna hear nothin' from you, far as I'm concerned you're mute - now stay the fuck away from me."

Ian stopped walking and watched him storm back into the Gallery feeling deflated. He couldn't figure out why Mickey was giving him such a wide berth. If he just let him explain, let him say the words, "I'm also gay, but I'm also South Side, I get it," maybe things would be okay, but he just seemed dead set on forgetting Ian even existed as if that'd wipe the information out of the universe.

* * *

 _Hey_

 _hey sup_

 _I want you to tattoo me_

 _gona b hrd 2 do without cing u_

 _Exactly ;)_

 _ur gonna show ur face?_

 _I am._

 _wen?_

 _Tomorrow, around 6?_

 _sure il send u my adress_

* * *

Mickey wouldn't describe himself as nervous. That was a weakness he wouldn't allow. He wasn't just some little bitch with a fluttery stomach and dreams of romance - more he was pacing around in his room after class thinking it was pretty sure thing he was gonna get fucked. Ultimately he didn't give a shit who this guy was, long as he knew how to handle a dick. Didn't stop him speculating though. Didn't stop him checking out every guy outside of his year-group, searching for blue eyes and a lingering stare. Most people he made eye-contact with just seemed to glare back or avoid him like the plague, though. Which was unhelpful.

He wasn't sure about how to dress - if he should look like he'd made an effort or not. In the end he just pulled on joggers and a tank, easy removal. Made sure he didn't totally stink, made sure there was some actual floor-space past all of the trash and old clothes, which he just kicked under his bed.

When the door finally knocked, his stomach flipped, and he hated himself for it. It wasn't like he had feelings for this guy - he didn't have a clue who he was or know basically anything about him, but if he was as good at fucking as he wrote, then he was pretty sure tonight would be interesting to say the least. What he wasn't expecting when he opened the door was a dopey grin and a flash of red hair, his face turned from confusion to rage in fairly swift succession, stepping back to slam the door.

"Told you I didn't want to fuckin' hear nothin' from you, Gallagher!"

A foot stopped the door from slamming and he heard Ian curse behind it, something satisfying about that at least. "I'm not here for- I'm your tattoo appointment."

"No you ain't, you ain't booked with me, get the fuck out." He just sounded tired more than anything, didn't want this to ruin his plans.

Ian tried his best to keep the door open but Mickey managed to push it closed. He sighed, but from the other side, Ian spoke up again, "I am booked with you, Mick, I'm your 6 O'Clock, I'm the… I'm the guy you been texting."

Mickey froze, and just stared at the door like he could see Ian through it. He pulled it open so suddenly, he didn't realise Ian had been leaning against it on the other side and he awkwardly stumbled in to meet Mickey's fiery gaze. "The fuck did you just say?"

"I'm the… guy you've been texting?"

Mickey didn't think, he led with his fist. As soon as it connected with Ian's stupid angular face he knew he would regret it, old wounds flared up and he recoiled away as quickly. It turned into a wrestling match then to avoid more damage and it was hard for either of them to keep up, as they slammed from wall to wall, sending Mickey's things flying off shelves, bottles and plates smashed until some tangle of clothes on the ground made them trip onto the bed. Mickey's back pressed badly against the edge until he flipped Ian over toward the wall to pin him.

They panted heavily over each other, staring. Feeling the adrenaline rush and almost able to smell the testosterone thick in the air. Mickey's hand was suspended limply in the air above Ian's head, barely able to make a fist anymore so it was a weak threat that they both know he wouldn't follow through on.

Ian stopped looking scared, Ian started looking at the bulge Mickey's easy-access pants were betraying, and then looked up at Mickey again. The way he wet his lips and stared purposefully up allowed Mickey's thoughts to catch up to the fact that - Ian Gallagher was the one who was texting him. Ian Gallagher sent him a dick-pic and sexted him. Ian Gallgher caught him in a gay bar .

Neither of them had to say any more, Mickey was pulling at his shirt to throw it off while he shuffled back and off of Ian to allow him the space to do the same. Ian was apparently on the same wavelength as he flipped Mickey onto his back and started pulling down his pants and underwear in one swift tug which actually took way longer than either of them wanted to while caught up in this hurricane of desire. Legs tangled in them, trying to loop them off his ankles. Ian seemed to get frustrated by the end, jerking them away as Mickey writhed his legs in a hopefully helpful manner before dropping them into the mess on the ground.

His dick was already standing to attention by that point and Ian eyed it with a hunger that made it twitch. Mickey tugged at the waistband of Ian's pants before he let him get any further, and Ian obeyed in removing those, too. Standing off the bed to make it easier, and asking, "you got stuff?" while he was up. Mickey pulled open his bedside drawer and Ian raised an eyebrow, in an expression that very clearly said: ' well prepared for a closet-case' . Mickey just rolled his eyes and threw back a bitch face until Ian grabbed what he needed and bounced back onto the bed. This time Ian went straight for Mickey's neck, kissing and licking and nipping, while his hands ran up and down his side, occasionally dragging his nails down.

Mickey was mostly just eager to get his dick touched, but Ian seemed to very purposefully keep his back arched in such a way that it wasn't getting touched at all, even accidentally. Mickey's own back pressed off the bed to try and compensate for that gap but Ian's hand purposefully pressed firmly against his hip to keep it pressed flush against the bed, he growled a little against it, but Ian distracted by moving slowly down to lick at his nipple and suck bruises down his front on the way to his dick, finally. When Ian did get there, Mickey tipped his head to look down at him and properly savor the image of him licking his cock from base to tip, swirling his tongue around the head before taking him in. He bobbed at a merciless pace at first that had Mickey grasping handfuls of sheets and trying to arch against the press of Ian's firm grip again, clawing so deep he was sure that was going to bruise, too. His breath kept catching in his throat against the sensation, until suddenly Ian moved painfully slowly. He didn't even notice there was a finger lubed up and pressing into him until it was knuckle deep. His eyelids fluttered against the intrusion, and he breathed out. Ian's mouth came away from his cock to focus on fingering him open, curling his finger to try and search for his prostate before he pulled out to slip in another.

Mickey was certain Ian's fingers were made for this, long and thin with those perfect bumps of his knuckles. He sighed as Ian picked up speed, two fingers, moving slowly and deliberately at first and gradually picking up speed. Mickey's eyes had slid shut, head tilted back slowly but he occasionally looked up to glance at Ian who was grinning a little as he worked, arm tensed and showing off those muscles he had never really noticed him having before. His other hand had moved from Mickey's hip to rest on his knee. Mickey hadn't even noticed but his hips had risen to allow for a better angle for Ian to work at.

By the time Ian had scissored and stretched him comfortably up to three fingers, Mickey ached. He made noises of frustration and fucked back against Ian's fingers. Ian squeezed his knee, saying in a low tone, "calm down, gotta have some patience."

"Just fuck me, already, Gallagher."

Ian made a noise back, and Mickey was certain he'd said the right thing or at least with the right tone, to convince him to do just that.

His fingers slipped out and Mickey rolled his hips to feel the emptiness Ian left behind while he watched him bite open a condom and slip it on, lubing up and jerking stroking himself hard. Mickey admired how unashamedly he did so, knowing he was being watched, but there was something really hot about the expressions he was making. And for the first time since they'd jumped each other he found himself thinking that this was his little sister's friend. The little freckly nerd who hung around their house probably more than anyone outside the family had dared. And now he was watching him jerk himself off, and waiting for his cock to fill him up.

But he didn't have to wait much longer because then Ian was bracing himself against Mickey's hips with one hand and guiding himself into Mickey slowly with the other, "relax, and breathe."

Normally Mickey would snap back at that, feeling belittled, like he hadn't done this before, like he didn't know. But because he did know, he didn't. He kept calm and kept breathing as he felt the burn and stretch of Ian's slow press into him. It seemed to keep going, and he could feel every inch like it was a mile. He somehow forgot to breathe when Ian was halfway in, and didn't breathe out again until he was flush. He felt completely full like he never had. The hot line of Ian consumed him, and they both just breathed for a while.

The silence would normally be heavy and uncomfortable for Mickey, but just the sound of their soft panting, and the noise of cars outside and people talking down the hallway and music being played somewhere was more than enough. His eyes moved slowly over Ian, following the line of his jaw, the soft pink of his parted lips, down that pale expanse of his throat that just begged to be bitten, and the chest that still had trails of freckles, though faded, almost completely invisible without being this close. He wet his lips, certain his pupils were as blown out as Ian's.

"Ready?" he asked, and Mickey nodded in response, taking an audible breath. When he moved, Mickey's whole world seemed to turn sideways for a moment and he thought briefly that he absolutely couldn't handle it. His eyes pressed closed and he focused on breathing until it started to feel okay, until Ian was sliding in and out of him faster and faster, making sure to slam back deeper after Mickey started thrusting against him, following his pace as best he could. Mickey hooked his legs up loosely around Ian's waist and Ian gripped Mickey's waist in turn. Propping himself up to kneel and thrust and pull and push Mickey as he saw fit. It was an impressive show of strength if anything. Mickey's head and shoulders shoved into his mess of pillows and blankets repeatedly against the force of it. Pretty sure his ass was ruined at this point.

When he started making actual noises, Ian seemed to grasp pretty quickly that he was getting close. He shifted positions again so he could jerk Mickey off at the same time, and it wasn't long until he came a line of white heat between them, grunting through it. Ian seemed to take that as a sign he could fuck himself to orgasm with less regard for Mickey, because he shifted again to give himself a better angle and fucked into him, somehow even faster than before. Head tilted back to expose that neck again, that perfect jaw. Mickey's eyelids still fluttered and he pulsed with sensitivity after cumming but he could still see the effort and hear the low groans and clapping noise of them slapping together with every few thrusts when Ian went deep enough.

When Ian came it was with a noise Mickey couldn't describe but he absolutely wanted as some kind of message tone. Somewhere between a cry of pain and a gruff sort of moan. Hips jutting against Mickey as he slowed down and fucked lazily through his own orgasm and then finally fell flat to the bed by Mickey's side after sliding out. Mickey was still panting, wriggling his hips and squirming to adjust to the tingling sensation Ian left behind, like he might not walk right for at least a week.

He stayed laid on his back for a while after that, just feeling himself come down, trying not to think too much about what just happened, but thoughts did seep in. He swore he'd never bring this gay thing home, but he just fucked someone from South Side. That's the furthest from what he wanted, but… shit. Maybe… fuck . As long as they could keep it casual it would be… okay? Maybe just this one off to get it out of their system?

"Finally got me off," Ian said, voice sounding rougher than usual.

"What?" he said, like he was trying to figure out if he'd missed something while lost in his own train of thought.

"You left me hangin' on the phone the other night, you owed me that one."

"Oh, right."

"Trash can?"

"Huh?"

Ian sat up and started rolling the condom off carefully, to tie up and said again, "trash can?"

"Uhh, over there somewhere," he said, gesturing vaguely towards the other side of the room, where a pile of garbage had taken over the area where a can definitely used to be. Ian pulled a face but stood on shaky bambi legs to hop over Mickey and throw that in the trash… heap. Stopping to pick up a tissue on the way, he stood over Mickey which made him feel way too uncomfortable, even after that. Watching Ian's eyes trace over him, he felt wary, defences coming back into place again already. He didn't realise Ian was just looking at his tattoos until he traced one, "you did all of these?"

"Yeah…" he said, voice betraying his caution.

"They're cool."

"They're shit."

"Gotta practice somewhere, huh?" Ian said, using the tissue to clean Mickey's cum off his chest before screwing it up to throw it into the same heap and leaning down to kiss him.

Mickey promptly and firmly grabbed Ian's jaw to stop him, "nuh-uh, no fuckin way, you kiss me and I'll cut your fuckin' tongue out."

"What?" Ian said, pulling away and frowning like he'd missed something. "We just fucked but you can't-"

Mickey dropped his hand but sat up, shifting away to put space between them. "You know what, just get the fuck out."

"What the fuck, Mick?!"

"This ain't no lovey dovey boy meets girl shit, I ain't gonna kiss you and hold you and listen to your lil' bitch dreams. This was a fuck. It's over. Get out."

Ian stared at him with complete wrath for more seconds than Mickey could bear to count, but his expression remained steely with conviction until Ian gave in and gathered his clothes to get dressed and leave, "you're a fucking asshole, Mickey."

"Yeah, go fuck yourself."

"No need."

* * *

Ian didn't get it. He thought he'd finally broke through, finally made that connection with Mickey he'd been trying and failing with for weeks, and then he just shoved him away again - over a kiss? Like that's somehow more intimate than literally being inside him. Than watching him cum? How was that possible? How screwed up was Mickey Milkovich and his family that that was how they saw sex and intimacy? It really didn't bear thinking about. He guessed on some level Mandy was the same, except she seemed to crave intimacy but settled for sex because it was at least some kind of closeness and attention.

But he knew, he just knew that there was something there. There was a spark. He felt it. And he was sure Mickey had, too. It was pure electricity every time their eyes met, static where Mickey touched him. He had never felt so close to someone during sex, granted his experiences weren't exactly vast, but it had to mean something . He figured maybe Mickey felt it, but it scared him. Maybe because he was all tough-guy-macho-thug he didn't like feeling scared of anything. It was as good a bet as any - and at least attempting to find out would justify him trying to get in contact with Mickey again. Even if that sounded like a stupid idea, he had to know if it meant something to him, too, because that wasn't a feeling he got often, or ever. And he needed more, if there was even a chance of it.

 _I forgive you for being an asshole, I know it's just who you are_

 _You just never going to talk to me again?_

 _Come on, that was a great fuck, I know you want to see me again, just give in._

 _Text me back_

 _Come onnnn!_

 _Mickey! I'm just going to keep texting until you reply!_

 _Mickeyyyyyyy!_

 _MICKEEEEYYYYYYY_

No matter how long he waited or how many texts he sent, Mickey didn't reply. He even called a few times, but nothing. It still seemed wrong to approach him about it in the studio, though, on the off chance he accidentally outed him and he knew there'd be no coming back from that.

A week passed and nothing, he ignored him at College, ignored his texts and calls, wouldn't look at him, didn't acknowledge him, he was doing a better job of pretending he didn't exist now than when he was properly angry at him before. But his plan worked last time, so who was to say it wouldn't work twice? Sort of pretty much almost worked with him getting the scholarship grant like Mickey had (except he probably deserved it a bit more).

He knocked on Mickey's door, a wad of cash in one hand a the other ready to brace the door before it was slammed in his face again. Mickey was slow to answer it again but when he did, he skipped a whole step and went straight to angry this time, slamming it shut - but met with the hand and not the foot this time, Ian learned .

"The fuck, Gallagher!"

"Oh, he speaks!" Ian pushed the door open, beating Mickey in the contest of strength this time, and shoved the money in his hand.

"The fuck is this for?" he said, confusion briefly taking over the rage as he watched Ian just strut over to his bed and start taking his pants off to dump onto the mess of his floor.

"You were gonna tattoo me, so tattoo me; that's more than enough to cover it."

"I ain't gonna fuckin' tattoo you."

"Did you count it?"

"No."

"Count it!"

"Fine!"

Ian left a pause for Mickey to count, which he did way faster than he assumed anyone could.

"Shit."

"Yeah, so tattoo me."

"Fine." He sounded far too grumpy to be trusted with a needle, but Ian was determined.

Mickey got his kit ready before it finally clicked with him that Ian had just stripped his pants off and posed himself on his bed like 'one of your French girls'. "Wait, where the fuck am I doin' whatever I'm doin'?"

"Here," Ian said with a quirked brow and a slither of a smirk, indicating his inner thigh.

"That's gonna hurt."

"It'll hurt anywhere."

"Hmm…" Mickey just looked more than a little cautious as he pulled gloves on and came and positioned himself between Ian's legs hand on the other thigh as he cleaned and checked the area. "What am I doing?"

"Whatever."

"Whatever?"

"Just whatever you want, like a flash tattoo - that's what you call them, right?"

"Sure…"

Mickey took a moment to think before he started roughing in a quick, simple design so he didn't have to linger too long. He wet his lips and did his best not to look at the bulge of his crotch but it was quite literally staring him in the face. He could smell sex and when he glanced up, Ian was still smirking. Mickey's grip on his thigh tightened marginally and his tongue did dances around his mouth and lips, glancing between the design and Ian's crotch and his face. He picked up his tattoo gun and started to prepare it, brought it up to do the first line before he just sighed and looked up at Ian like he was only delaying the inevitable, and said, "you wanna bang?"

* * *

"You realise you just paid me for sex, right?"

"Your ass ain't worth that much, Mick. So make up for it, stop being a little bitch and kiss me."


End file.
